Abhumans of the Imperium
by Pixo
Summary: A collection of story stories regarding the least represented demographic in the Imperium ... the Abhumans
1. Homo sapiens variatus

**Chapter One**

_**Homo Sapiens Variatus**_

~ I ~

As it was not on any Imperial records, the planet had no name. When two Inquisitors were forced to crash land on the planet they, and the other survivors, were first Imperial citizens to ever set foot on a world of thick forests, high mountains, broad rivers, and deep oceans. Or so they thought. They named the planet Dacia-Gallorum, after themselves, naturally. It was a planet bursting with plant and animal life. A world ideal for colonization, except for three factors.

Firstly, the Inquisitors arrival had been abrupt and unplanned. Their ship was disabled by a maraudering purple-hulled chaos vessel in the depths of the warp and they forced to flee into real space to escape the Foe. The transition killed the navigator and damaged the ship to such an extent they were forced to abandon her altogether. Furthermore, their crash had wounded them, and they were unable to travel from the crash-site.

Secondly, they did not know where they were. The Eastern Fringe was a space so vast the other four Segmentae of the Imperium could fit into it. Dacia and Gallorum had been in the Centarus Arm, traveling trailward when disaster struck. They were truly lost in space.

Thirdly, they were not alone.

~ II ~

"Bastio Azul," called a man, "They're ready for you."

Bastio nodded and looked back into his tent. Behind him sat his women, their little babe resting and cooing in her lap. She met his gaze eye to eye. He rose up, looked away, and left his tent.

Bastio followed the man through a camp of tents. Furs and fabrics stretched tight over wood and bone frames. Totems and fetishes hung from poles and spears. Small fires had burned to charcoal. There was chaotic order to tents. It was quiet, only a few small birds tweeted, and no one was in sight. All were waiting for him at the Circle.

At the eastern end of the camp the man waved Bastio to a stop, and went around a tent. Moments later two imposing men approached Bastio. One, brown-skinned and grey-hair wore furs about his shoulders, a chain with a great and terrible "I" hung at his neck.

"My Lord, Dacia," Bastio bowed his head to him. He turned to the other and repeated his bow. The other was a pale, spectral figure with black hair and blacker eyes, he wore his symbol around his left wrist, the great "I" flowing with the moments of his arm, "My Lord, Gallorum."

"Bastio, they wait," Dacia said.

"Prepare them, prepare them for the worst," Gallorum said.

Bastio nodded slowly, "Yes, Lords."

As he stepped past them, the two Inquisitors shared a knowing look.

~ III ~

"Warriors of the Imperium!" Bastio Azul's deep voice grumbled at the assembled mass of feral warriors from a feral world. Hundreds of fearsome eyes watched him for hesitance or weakness.

"Hear me, and hear me good! We fight for the great Sky Eagle, our master and savior. We are fierce, we are strong, we are warriors!" he punctuated the words by pounding his huge fist against his massive chest.

"The great Sky Eagle watches us, watches us for any failure, any chance to swoop down from the heavens to tear us apart with his Golden Talons! He cares not for our failures, only for two things, our victory or our death!"

He paused to spit a large wade for spittal on the muddy ground. He pointed at the ground and looked angrily about him, "You do the same, all of you. We are about to leave this world, our home and hearth, and it should remember us." The sounds of hundreds of throats hocking and spitting rumbled like a degusting medley. Looking at his spit, he raised his hoof and stomped down, grounding the spit into the earth. The hoof twisted and ground for a long time. All the other hoof-footed warriors did the same.

"We make the trip to the stars to make better the sins of the Imperium." he called out, "We're Sineater, one and all. We carry the sins of the Imperium in our very flesh! We are the manifestation of the moral errors of Mankind. There is nothing good about us. Our obscene forms are disgusting to the God-Emperor and his children. We are the nothing but the Beastsmen of the Throne … oh woe, our shame is great!" he paused and placed his hands on his hips, glaring around, " … but so will be our _redemption_!"

The horde of beastmen roared and brayed with approval.

"Prepare yourselves for we leave this very night for the stars. When next we feel earth under us, we will answer the heavy demands of the vengeful God-Emperor for tribute … in _BLOOD_!"

The horde's roar shook the very air.

~ IV ~

Bastio returned to the two Inquisitors. They nodded approvingly. He was a prime specimen of beastman; huge and powerful with an aura of violence and menace, even more so then most of his kind. He towered over the two Inquisitors, whom were not small men themselves. His head was that of a ram, thick horns curved tightly around his shaggy head. He wore only green Guard issue fatigue trousers, a thick black belt and forearm bracers. Around his neck hung a gold torque with blue stones on the ends, an enormous double-head eagle was tattooed on his pale, bare chest. He was the incarnation of savagery, the bestial nightmare many Imperial citizens feared made flesh.

"Well said," Dacia said, "you make a fine speech. You're a natural with rhetoric. They're all worked up now."

"What is rhetoric, my Lord?" Bastio asked.

The two Imperials smirked, "You don't have aspirations above your station, do you, Wararchos Azul?" Gallorum said.

"No my lord, I live to serve the Sky-Eagle, and his Lords."

"Good. Now gather the Dacia-Gallorum Axuilia together and get them moving. We've a ship to catch."

~ V ~

Inquisitors Dacia of the Ordo Xeno and Gallorum of the Ordo Hereticus would not have survived their crash had it not been for the care of Bastio and his phoros. The tribe saw their escape ship burn its way through the atmosphere. The beastmen chief said it was great Sky Eagle calling them. The Sky Eagle being their local manifestation of the Cult of the Emperor. They followed the path of the fire-bird to a small valley. When the beastmen found the escape ship they were at a loss of what to do, they had never seen anything like a spaceship before. Undaunted by fear Bastio explored the crashed craft eventually finding a way in and discovering the people inside. They were broken and burned, but some were still alive.

Bastio's carried Dacia, young Seo carried Gallorum, back to the stronghold. The other survivors were brought back by members of his phoros. Bastio's mate, Zoa healed the two men with herbs and tincture crafted for tribal lore and local pharmaceuticals. When the recovered consciousness, their reaction was one of what one might expect.

Though weak, they fought the beastmen with all the fervor of the devout. It took a long time before the two men came to realize they were in no danger from the beastmen. They could communicate with them, though their language was an old, bastardized version of low Gothic. That they were not going to be eaten, as the beastmen did not eat meat. That they were not going to be sacrificed to Chaos because the beastmen worshipped the Emperor.

That last realization shook both men. Their belief had been challenged to the core and they nearly gave up all hope.

Bastio explained their history. Too many generations ago to count, the great Sky Eagle came to them from the stars. The Eagle spoke onto them, he told them they were his creation, as all life was. They were created to bear the sins of his favored creatures, Man, so that humanity could grow and prosper. He told them there they were tough enough to shoulder the burden of an empire worth of wrong doing, and they should be proud to be Sineaters. However, the great Sky Eagle continued, they were required to pay the debt of their existence, as abominations or not. The Sky Eagle fought many wars, and they were required to give him victory or death. Many thousands of Phoros were taken-up by his great golden claws and taken to the stars.

~ VI ~

For the first time in thousands of years, the beastmen of the Eastern Fringe were taken to the stars by the Inquisition. Aboard the _Foxtail_, the Dacia-Gallorum Auxilia plied the dark, cold reaches for a year until they landed on a world called Onn. The planet was without intelligent indigenous life, but possessing a breathable atmosphere and fertile earth, the world was highly suitable for humanity to colonize. However, that was not why were there. The two Inquisitors had been following a purple chaos vessel, tracking it. The starship made orbit around Onn and flyers came and went from the surface. It was minor chaos world with a population of a few million people dedicated to the worship of Slaanesh.

The Auxiliaries landed east of the furthest concentrating of chaos worshippers and advanced through a great forest. They located their first target, a large camp that was a training ground for both the military and pleasure aspects of Slaanesh.

Bastio lurked behind a flowering bush, crouched down on a knee, waiting, listening. He turned his warknife in his right hand slowly. The forest was nearly black, but his animal-like eyes could see well enough to navigate the dark maze. He heard a soft crunch nearby. Then another. The sound of someone walking, slowly and softly.

The beastman rose his eyes over the bush, he saw two man-like shadows moving on the other side. Without hesitation he leapt over the bush. He stabbed downward with the warknife, the cold iron blade stuck the shadowy figure in the neck, stabbing through both jugular veins and its esophagus. The man-shadow could not make a sound greater then a whistlely moan. Bastio left his blade embedded in its neck and grappled with the other figure. He grabbed its head with his hands, and twisted violently. Vertebrae popped and snapped. He dropped that man-shadow and took hold of the other, slamming its face into the dirt, pressing down hard on its head while it struggled and thrashed. It wasn't long before the creature expired.

He pulled them back behind the bush, laid them on the ground, and examined what he had killed. They were man shaped, but tall and terribly skinny, clad in shiny, tight-fitting black leather. A terrible glyph emblazoned on their chest. The mark seemed to glow slightly, as if excited by the blood from the oozing out of the neck wound. Antique lasweapons hung from bejeweled straps. They had pale faces of men, only horrifically ugly, twisted and maimed, pitted with old scars and dozens of piecing of black stone.

Bastio looked around the darkness and called out twice with slight wobbly whistle call. As silent as deer three more beastmen appeared out of the darkness, weapons held at the ready. They crouched around him, looking the things lying on the ground.

Bastio nodded to dead things, "This is what we are here to kill. Evil creatures who care not for the Sky Eagle or his great empire."

"What is it?" asked Spyros, kantos of phoros Cano.

Murgeth, the bull-headed kardex of Dacia-Gallorum, lifted a dead thing's arm, turn its hands around. He examined its delicate fingers closely. The nails where painted purple. "Women's hands," he rumbled with distain. "They're small weak things. Should be easy enough."

Luth, kantos of the Talg Phoros, grunted in agreement, "A sentry? Their camp cannot be far."

"Close by," Seo said, pointing west, "less than two kilometers."

Bastio grunted in agreement, "Each of you, get back to your phoros, we advance before first light."

~ VII ~

It took four years before the two Inquisitors were recovered by a passing Rogue Trader vessel. During that time they had formed a great and daring plan. They needed to hunt down the Chaos vessel that had attacked them. And to do so they would need soldiers. Using the beastmen's simple but furious belief in the God-Emperor they pronounced themselves as representatives of the Sky-Eagle, which to be fair, as Inquisitors was relatively accurate.

While their authority was effectively limitless, raising an army was something few did. Usually they simply commandeered the nearest military assets. Though abominations in their eyes, they were the only Throne-loyal people they had encountered, they needed an army and were going to use them.

Neither Inquisitor knew of a contemporary example of beastmen serving the Throne, by they did know of existing records of units of abhumans, even entire armies made up of abhumans, who fought on the behalf of the Imperium. Some deviant species still did. Ogryns, Ratlings, and more besides. However, beastmen had been cast off millennia ago, killed as mutants and spawn where ever they were found.

They, and the few surviving members of the band, spent the next four years training the beastmen in art of modern warfare. As one of the stormtroopers put it, "They can fight, that's for sure, but they can't war." Though primitives who had only mastered forging metal in the last two generations, they learned surprising quick. Most phoros, the local word of tribe/clan/family/unit, had a segment of hardened warriors, and these types took to 'war' particularly quickly.

Then the skies glowed and a ship riding a bed of fire, dropped from the heavens. The trader vessel took Gallorum away, who proceed to acquire two thousand kits of Imperial Guard issue equipment from the nearest Munitorum depot. When asked if he was outfits an army, he muttered, 'something like that'. He returned twenty months later, with a commandeered starship large enough to hold a regiment of beastmen.

A great games where held. Those who were the strongest, fastest, toughest and smartest were selected to be inducted into the Dacia-Gallorum Auxilia, and to fight the Sky Eagles wars.

Bastio Azul, leader of the mountain phoros Azul was elected Warachros by an assembly of kantos – tribal chieftains and soon-to-be unit commanders. Bastio selected Murgeth as his Kandax. The kandax was an important position, second-in-command of the regiment, consul to the Wararchos, and arbitrator of inter-phoros disputes. It was a wise selection, because not only was Murgeth the largest and strongest of them all, he was also fabled Minotaur of the elusive and dangerous deep forest phoros. He showed up at the games out of the morning fog, and easily won every contest pitted against him. The other beastmen respected and feared him, and that reflected highly on Bastio.

Each was given a kit, a pair of green fatigue trousers, a black flak vest with combat wedding and utility belt, and a lasgun. The newly inducted Auxiliaries were each given a large warknife of dark iron, forged by Bastio and the kantoses. They would carry their world with them.

~ VIII ~

Crawling forward on his belly Bastio watched the camp in front of him. It was a good hour or more before the sun rose and the air was uniformly grey and flat. His nighteyes could see chaosmen moving round. There was a staff rotation for the cultist stationed in the outer posts. The auxiliaries had already silenced all of the wood sentries. He saw some walking into the woods, calling out to the now dead sentries. Bastio watched the pit-hole in front of him. Two chaosmen climbed out of the hole and two were climbed in. Bastio pushed himself up and sprang from the woodline. He ran as fast as his big, hoofed feet could carry him, which was surprising quicker than most people expected. Two hundred other auxiliaries followed his lead. None roared; it was a silent stampede of man-animals in the half-light of not-yet-morning. He had covered half the distance before shouts were heard, far to his left. He heard the pop of las-fire.

He pumped his combat shotgun – _Ka-Klack_ – and leapt the last ten feet into the pit-hole, landing next to a black-clad chaosmen, he fired – _Blam!_ The fiery blast removed the chaosman's head and shoulders. Bastio whipped around, pumping the shotgun as he did so. He held the weapon low, aimed upwards. He pulled the trigger - _Blam!_ The force of the blast lifted the cultist clean out of the foxhole, his chest a bleeding mass of tissue.

He did not wait. Bastio threw himself out of the hole, killing the two confused cultists who had only recently vacated the trench. He raced across the dark landscape, seeing fights taking place all around him. Beastman raced from the treeline, skinny black-clad figures were running forwards. Las shots whipped and snapped across the air. Explosions throw earth skywards. Bastio raced onwards.

He fired off two blasts and threw himself behind a rock, sheltering from the hail of returning las-fire. He rolled onto his back and pulled a frag grenade from his belt. He threw it blind, but hard, towards the centre of the chaos base, hoping for the best. His did this twice more.

A chaosman bounded around the rock, lasrifle at his shoulder. The man fired. The shoot struck the earth between Bastio's legs. As the enemy worked the bolt-action energizer on his old-fashioned lasrifle, the beastman roared and fired his shotgun into in his guts. Bastio spun quickly to a knee, just in time to see another chaosman come around the rock. Bastio smashed his face with the stock of his weapon, then exploded his chest with a blast from the business end of the combat shotgun. He leaned over and pumped two shots at the space behind the rock, just to be sure no one was there.

He felt a body throw itself down next to him, he knew from the smell it was one of his own. A quick glance told him it was Seo. The goat-headed auxiliary popped up, propping his lasrifle on the rock, he blazed away into the dark morning.

Bastio dropped back down, pressing his back against the rock, panting. He took a moment to load shells into his weapon as he looked around. The first line of foxholes had been overrun quickly. Chaos had lost all warriors holding the outer lines, the beastmen spared none of the unbelievers. Once they breached the perimeter, they took up positions in whatever cover they find, holding for phase two of the plan.

Phase two consisted of Murgeth attacking the far side of the encampment with another two hundred auxiliaries, after Bastio had drawn the enemy towards him.

"Auxilia!" Bastio shouted into his short-range vox-link, "holding positions. Bleed them dry!"

He turned and patted Seo on the shoulder, the beastman looked back at him. Bastio was pointing towards a small bunker. Dozens of silhouettes could be seen around it, las-shots whipped from behind a dirt wall, a flag of Slaanesh flapped limply in the still air. "I want that flag burned to ash!"

Seo nodded and called out, "Phoros Azul! Gather here!"

A dozen beastman moved to rally to Bastio. One, a huge specimen, lumbered over with a heavy-stubber gripped in his huge paws. He muscled Seo out of his way, propped the weapon on its bi-pod, and became to lay down a hail of hard-rounds. His loader, holding a chain of heavy .50 caliber rounds, hunkered down next to him.

The space behind the rock quickly filled up with auxiliaries and was not large enough to hide them all from their enemies. One beastman was hit in the neck, another in the shin.

"Auxilia!" Bastion roared, "Glory! Raaaaaaaaaaarrrrrr!" and he leapt around the rock, racing away.

~ IX ~

The enemy with their powerful, but slow firing bolt-action lasrifles could not bring enough fire power to bear to stem the stampede. When the beastmen hit the wall the fighting became hand-to-hand, and was where the auxiliaries excelled. Each was over seven feet tall, corded with thick muscles, and conditioned by a lifetime of tribal warfare. They used rifle-stocks, knifes, fists, hooves and horns. The slaaneshi were out classed and quickly died. Though not without taking a half-a-dozen auxiliaries with them.

Bastio pumped his shotgun, waved auxiliaries left and right. He had his sights on the bunker. Taking four beastmen with him, they advanced quickly to the structure. It was set into the ground, protected by the earthen ramparts. All around him, his beastmen were overrunning them, killing the defenders to the last.

From the doorway of the bunker, a chaosman shot Rog in the chest. The beastman staggered back, holding a hole in the torso. Another chaosman popped out and finished off Rog with a shot to the head, his goat-head blew apart like an exploded tomato. Seo unloaded a dozen lasrounds at the slaaneshi bunker. Bastio threw a frag grenade into the doorway. Smoke and flame blew out. Bastio, Seo and Juhano pushed forwards, blazing the doorway with their weapons.

~ X ~

It was dark in the bunker, even with his nightvision working fullest it was hard to see far. Smoke and sweet, musky incense filled the air. The fumes made their heads swim. Bastio paused to attach his hand-lamp to the lug-clamp of his shotgun.

Clearing the bunker was grim work. The three moved slowly, pumping lasshot and shotgun blasts into dark, candle lit rooms that were chambers of debauchery, violence and violation. Skinny, black-clad cultist would leap out, stabbing and shooting at them. Juhano was killed, shot in the back at point-blank range. Seo lost a horn in a brief exchange. Bastio was stabbed in the hip and shoulder.

The centre chamber of the bunker was curtained off. A chanting voice could be heard. Bastio waved Seo back and signaled him to get a frag ready.

A great shriek filled the air and Bastio whipped his shotgun around, the lamp illuminating a naked women rushing out of a chamber. Her hands were blackened talons, her teeth filled to fangs. Her hair was a mass of dreadlocks with incense sticks burning from within them, wreathing her head in a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke.

Bastio unloaded a shell between her breasts. She flew across the hall way, smacking into the wall. Flailing about the ground, she shrieked terribly. Bastio stepped forward, stomped on her, using his bulk to pin her to the ground. He leveled his shotgun at her face, the witch lashed furiously at his legs.

"For the Throne!" he roared, and in a blast of light and fire, disintegrated her head.

~ XI ~

The sun had risen over the forest, casing glorious golden light onto the smoking camp. Auxiliaries wandered the site, hauling black-clad chaos worshippers to a growing pile of burning bodies. The smoke floated up straight into the breezeless air. Their own loses were hastily buried in the forest, after being stripped of any useful kit.

Bastio climbed onto the roof of the bunker. He looked around. He saw Dacia and Gallorum talking with Murgeth, pointing towards him. He raised his fist high and roared. The auxiliaries near him took up the call, roaring triumphantly. Turning around, relishing the victory, his eyes fell onto the great purple flag before him, whipping and snapping agitatedly, as if trying to get away from him, though there was no wind. As he approached the cloth it suddenly snapped around, striking him in the face. The cloth tore his lip. He stumbled back, surprised.

He spat blood, lowered his horns, and growled low, "Devilry."

Bastio pulled his shotgun off his back, _klacked_ the slide, and slowly took aim. _BLAM_! A hole appeared in the centre of the flag. The cloth flapped around, as if in death throes, then suddenly hung limp. Bastio nodded, satisfied it was dead. Slinging his weapon on his back he walked to it, intent on tearing it down. As he reached for the pole the flag snapped alive, striking his back with all the power of whip. He felt his flesh part. He reached up, grappling with the trashing cloth. With one mighty wretch he tore down the slaanesh flag and threw it to the ground. The cloth rolled away, as if caught up in a gust of wind. Bastio roared and pinned to the ground with a hoof. He snatched it up, and it wrestled with him furiously.

It was a struggle to get the flag to the flame, but he succeeded in the end. Balled up, Bastio threw it firmly onto the burning bodies. It took a long time to burn, jumping and jerking on its own accord, attempting to get out of the flame, but it eventually did succumb to the heat - first it flamed, then burned and eventually turned to ash.


	2. Homo sapiens minimus

**Chapter Two**

**Homo Sapiens Minimus**

::::

_677.23 M41, Segmentum Tempestus, Solstice Sector, Nearveil Subsector, Atholl System_

::::

On the world of Tay Atholl the cohort-regiments of Balerno Tertiary were holding a series of trench lines north of the city of Moulin. One of those cohorts, Cors XXX of Balerno Teritary, held the western extreme of the line, right to the shoreline. Their segment was the least active section, most of the hot-work happened far to the east. That said Cors XXX was not doing well. Six months earlier an epidemic had swept through the ranks; so many solider had became ill with a painful and terrible affliction that the entire unit had been removed from active combat, isolated, and placed along the sea to recover. It did not seem to help. Soldiers still continued to become terribly ill.

Commissar Tweed sat at his desk, staring at a blackened skull on the table top. The skull, wearing his black, peaked commissar's cap, stared back with empty eye sockets. The window behind him was open and a warm ocean breeze blew in. Sea birds squawked and cawed loudly. Tweed, and his team, were new to Cors XXX, having transferred in after the other senior Commissar became ill with what was now called 'Cors Bout' or 'The Dirty Thirty.'

The illness displayed itself in a multitude of symptoms. Firstly, there were painful rashes which covered hands, feet, armpits and genitals. Secondly, open sores developed and would discharge pus in an unhappy green color. The final severe symptom was that the unfortunate's tongue grew a white, fungus like fuzz which required constant scraping for the patient to be able to talk, eat, or swallow fluids, or in severe cases even breathe.

Tweed looked through the scrolls and memo-files on his desk, frowning unhappily. The Cors XXX medicae staff reports indicated it was a virulent disease unlike anything they had seen before. They could not confirm how it was transmitted or create any sort of vaccine; as the infection demonstrated traits that included bacterial, viral, fungal and protozoan in nature and baffled them utterly. In Tweed's opinion they were pretty much worthless, especially after the senior doctor became ill himself. He had the whole medicae section shipped off to serve as doctors in a penal regiment. He brought in another team from the Navy to act as replacement medics.

Tweed turned in his chair and faced out the window, watching the waves lap up and down the beach. After months of grueling research and hundreds of interviews, he was certain he knew the cause of the illness. Even with over twenty years in the Commissariat he had never seen anything like it. He was almost at a loss of what to do. Almost.

After a long sigh, he called out, "Tarret!"

A few moments later the door opened and his junior walked it. Tarret was a young man, fit and strong and strong-willed. He'd make a fine Commissar someday. "Sir?"

"You have the troop disposition?"

"Right here, sir," he said, holding up a data-slate.

"Good. I need you to find me a ratling sniper, a corporal Shella Bigback. She should be posted with Captain Elks's seventh team."

"And when I find her?" Tarret enquired.

"Bring her to me."

::::

Tarret left the command post, a requisitioned beach-manse. The sun was out and walking quickly the warm breeze flapped his long, black stormcoat. His black leather boots clicked on the stones laid around the command post to stop officers' boots from getting to sandy.

He turned west and around him was a small tent city, hundreds of tents arranged along the bluffs above the seawall. Soldiers would stop and salute as he walked past, worried they were going to be busted for some infraction. Tarret did not return the salutes or even nod; he just glared as he passed, hard-eyed and grim. He knew they were up to nothing more devious then sunny themselves without their shirts on (which, in fact, was a breach of uniform code CVII-ac), but he had to keep his reputation. Fear of the Commissariat was a good thing.

As he walked up the steep coastal path he saw a great pile of white ruins. Seventh team was posted at what was left of an old lighthouse. The tumbled down building would have been majestic in its prime. When Tay Atholl launched satellites, the need for landbased navigation became obsolete and the use of lighthouses diminished. Most fell into disuse and many collapsed without proper maintenance. The Balernosers had fortified the ruins with heavy weapons teams and tarantula weapon platforms. A half-squad of Ratling snipers were attached to Seventh Company and where perched around the remaining upper remnants of the lighthouse.

A 'noser sentry lurking in a gun-pit called to Tarret, "Oy, below! Bronze Helm!"

Tarret paused to catch his breath. "Silver Horn!" he shouted back.

A brown-clad Balernoser stepped out from behind a rock, "Sir, what can I do for you?"

Tarret walked up, panting, he placed his hands on his hips and turned in a full circle, "Big hill, that."

"Nice view though," replied the soldier.

"Yeah," Tarret agreed. The view was spectacular. He could see the vast blue ocean, the thin beach, the high bluffs, the beach-resort-cum-command-compound, the tent-barracks, and the long, flat coastal plain the bulk of Cors XXX were defending.

"You need something, sir?"

"I'm looking for corporal Bigback."

The soldier raised an eyebrow and a strange look passed over his face. "Any reason in particular?"

Tarret tilted his head slightly, "Are you questioning the Commissariat, trooper?"

"Hmm, no sir. No. Of course not, sir."

"I should like to think not … Trooper Blaine. Now, where is Bigback?"

The trooper appeared distinctly nervous suddenly. He glanced around at the few other troopers nearby, then back at the black-clad commissar with the expectant face. "East compound, sir. Should I vox ahead?"

"No. You let them know I'm coming and you'll be doing latrine duty for a year."

Blaine nodded nervously. Tarret turned and walked away. As he passed the other troopers he shouted, "Shouldn't you be doing something?" They scattered quickly.

Once he had entered the ruins proper he could see a dozen brown-clad troopers. Most where embedded in the ruins, heavy weapons propped on stones. He stood and watched them, thinking about Blaine. Why was he nervous? What was going on here?

An officer saw him standing there and quickly ran over, "Junior Tarret, what do we owe the honor?"

Staring at the officer, Tarret pulled out his bolt pistol, checked the load, aggressively chambered a round, and slapped the weapon back into the holster on his hip. He snarled at the officer, "Lieutenant Mellows. Anything I should know about?"

The officer struggled to make a noise, eventually creating a sentence, "I … don't … know."

Tarret leaned in and whispered, "Something is going on here. I'll find out what and when I do, whether through complaisance or complacence, your ass is mine, Mellows."

The officer looked terrified.

"Where is the ratling sniper, Bigback?"

Mellows gulped and squeaked, "I'll take you right away sir."

The East Compound was roughly square and open to the sky. With vox-units, tables and chairs scattered around the room it served as the local headquarters of the unit occupying the lighthouse. Captain Elks was waiting for them. He was red faced and sweating, and looked dishevel, like he had just woken up and dressed in a hurry.

"Junior Tarret …" he began.

"Shut up, Captain. I've had it with seventh team. Someone bring me corporal Bigback, right now, or I'll have the entire team written up for insubordination."

Elks frowned, disliking being spoken at by youth half his age.

"Now you listen…" he said.

Tarret interrupted, meeting the officer eye-to-eye, "Captain Elks, I, and Commissar Tweed, are waiting for you to carry out your orders. Are you refusing?" Tarret dropped his hand to the butt of his bolt pistol.

After a moment of staring, the officer backed down and looked away. He nodded to Mellows, who quickly trotted away.

::::

Ratlings, or depending on what part of the Imperium you were from Stunties, Shorties, Runtlings, or Halfings, were small humanoids about the height and weight of a size of a fourteen year old human. They were stunted from generations of living on fecund, abundant worlds and hundreds of generations of localized inbreeding. They were well known for their low sense of discipline and lower moral scruples. Loud, obnoxious, sexually vile creatures, most lived lives that involved little more than eating until sick, drinking until unconscious, and procreating uncontrollably. Many thought if it wasn't was their strangely accurate shooting abilities and their talent with farming the Imperium of Man would be better off without them. Yet for all their lack of refinement, there was something almost sweet about them. One could almost forgive their unrefined nature, because they lived life happily and were content with small things.

Lieutenant Mellows returned with a red-haired Ratling at his side. Though child-sized, she was obviously a fully matured woman with round breasts and wide hips. She wore the standard issue brown of Balerno soldiery, with the addition of a camo-cloak wrapped around her shoulders like shawl, and she carried a Ratling issued long-las. Her black flak vast was a child-issue variety. She smiled happily at Tarret.

"Bigback?" he asked her.

"Hey, handsome?"

Tarret's eye-brows shot off his forehead, "Excuse me? Handsome?"

Suddenly remembering who Tarret was, Bigback pulled herself to attention, "Eh, sir!"

Tarret snarled, "Get your kit together, we're leaving."

::::

Tarret walked at a quick pace, eager to get back to the commissar's officer and begin investigating the suspicious behavior of seventh team. Those sneaky bastards were going to feel the full wraith of …

"Whoa!…" Tarret said and jerked his arm up. He glared at Bigback. "What do you think you're doing?"

She smiled sweetly at Tarret, "Just trying to hold your hand, Mr. Commissar, sir."

Tarret's lip curled in disgust, "What in _Throne's_ name are you playing at?"

"You looked so serious just then, I thought, maybe you needed a bit of comfort. When I was sad, my mama always used to hold my hand."

"You're not my mother."

"Well, I should hope not!"

"I'm also a commissar, I don't need to be comforted."

Bigback took up his hand and patted it gently, she looked up into his eyes, concern written on her face, "Everyone needs comfort, sometime or other."

::::

Walking through the command manse Bigback was amazed at all the things she saw. She always was. Like the handsome man at the duplitron machine. She was amazed by both man and machine, she winked at him, he winked back.

Shella Bigback was a county lass, through and through. In the hinterlands where she was raised, there was no running water or electricity. When she finally convinced her father that signing up was good idea, it was no mean feat. Old man Bigback still felt jaded from the pacification campaign conducted by the Finreht 122nd Highlanders, several hundred years earlier. Her family had taken the family pony-cart to Bakeup, the nearest town of any significance. There she kissed her family goodbye for the final time, and jumped onto the wagon caravan headed to Aderdass, the capitol of Sigma-Agrius. Aside from the local ecclesiarchy priest, this was her first real introduction to Imperial culture. She was amazed and baffled by the glamour and glory of it all. She knew, then and there, she would die to defend the Imperium.

"Wait here," the young commissar told her.

Tarret knocked on the commissar's door and heard an unintelligible voice bellow. He opened the door, entered, and presented himself smartly. Before he could say a word, Tweed was yelling at him, "What took you so damned long?"

Tarret snapped to attention, "Apologizes, sir, it took longer than I anticipated to locate Corporal Bigback. Seventh team was less than forthcoming."

Tweed raised an eye-brow.

"They're up to something at the lighthouse. I'll begin investigating immediately."

"No, hold on. I want to you to sit in on this interview."

"As you wish, sir. Shall I bring in the corporal? "

Tweed reached over and lifted his peaked cap off the skull that adored his desk. He took a moment to fit it tightly, then he turned the skull round to face the interviewee's chair, finally he nodded to Tarret. The junior commissar walked out into the hall. He leaned down and whispered to Bigback, "Listen to me, don't do any of the concern, hand-holding talk or any of the other stuff we did on the walk over here. Don't do it with Tweed. He'll kill where you stand, if you do. Got it?"

Bigback winked at him.

Tweed shook his head, "Alright, come on then."

The young commissar led the Ratling into the senior commissar's office. Tarret closed the door behind them and led Bigback to the chair opposite Tweed. The older commissar sat with his hand crossed on the desk. His face was unreadable, "Thank you, Tarret," he said. "Corporal, take a seat."

Bigback hopped up into the chair and swung her legs idly, looking around at Tweed's office. There wasn't much to see. Mostly it was paperwork and memo-pads and data-slates. The only item of interest was the blackened skull on Tweed's desk. The skull's black pit-eyes stared at her. Bigback glanced back and forth between the skull's dark eyes, and the Tweed's own. She couldn't decide which was more lifeless.

"Shella Bigback?" Tweed asked the ratling.

"Yes, Commissar," she replied and smiled widely.

"Explain how you arrived here. With the Cors XXX."

"I'm from Sigma-Agrius, originally, you know in the Agrippna Sector. Joined up when I came of age. Looking for action, I was. I couldn't get all the action I needed on my Pappy's farm, so off I went."

"Explain how you achieved you sniper ranking?"

"When you join up on Sigma-Agrius, those good, _good_-looking Finreht soldiers put you together and run you through a series of exercises. The best get the good-rifles, the rest get to serve slop on Navy ships."

Tweed nodded, took a few notes, and then asked, "How did you get assigned to the Cors XXX?"

Bigback smiled brightly at the commissar and shrugged, "Departmento Munitorium assigned me here. Not that I'm complaining. These 'Noser are good-looking and healthy, if you know what I mean?"

Tweed simply glared. "Is the Cors XXX you're first assignment?" he said.

"Yup, just got here. Oh, well, rather about six or seven months ago."

"Six or seven months, you say," Tweed said, cross-referencing a note on a data-slate, "Interesting. That was about the time the illness stated."

Bigback just nodded blissfully, unsure if that was a question or a statement.

Tweed continued, "Tell me, what do you know about this illness that has been sweeping the regiment?"

"A damned shame, if you ask me. All those boy's feeling poorly, all that vomiting and those rashes. Growing mushrooms on your tongue, whoa! Yuk! No thank you, Emperor!"

Tweed nodded, "I agree. The symptoms are terrible to behold, indeed. I imagine even worse to suffer through. In my investigations I have interviewed nearly every victim in the last two months, some, three hundred and seventy-five soldiers, and you know what I find interesting?"

Bigback shook her head, "What?"

"There is one thing that links them together, one thing that binds them. A common denominator, as they say."

"What is it?" Bigback asked, excitedly

"It's you." Tweed said heavily.

"What do you mean …"

Tweed held up his hand to forestall her question, "After consulting with the Ordos Medicae at sub-sector command I have determined that, as of yesterday's additions to the infirmary, fifty percent of the Imperial Guard regiment, recognized and certified as Cors XXX of Balerno Tertiary, has come down with _Treponema Pallidum Sive Morbus Minimus_."

There was a long silence where the three people simply stared at each other.

Tweed finally asked, "Do you know what that is?"

"Know what it is … hah, I couldn't even pronoun it!" Shella Bigback replied.

"You Tarret, any idea?" the commissar asked his junior.

"No, sir. None whatso ever."

Tweed smirked, "It's more commonly known as Ratling Social Disease. What isn't commonly known is the fact that can be transmitted between Ratling and Human. The 'Transmission,'" Tweed said, using his fingers to air-quote the word, "is sexual in nature. Do you realize with your sexually transmitted infection you have caused the regiment more causalities then the enemy. Congratulations, Shella, you have single-handedly destroyed the Cors XXX."

Shella Bigback stared back at Tweed confused, "Eh?" she said.

"Shella, you have destroyed a holy regiment of the God-Emperor of Mankind by your disgusting and relentless sexually habits."

"No I haven't!"

"You have," Tweed said. "And what's more, the rate! Two or three men a day … it beggars belief."

"You calling me a whore?" she said hotly.

Tweed raised an eye-brow and gave her his number one glare. She knew she was tempting fate and quietly looked at her feet.

"Now, if I may continue," Tweed said, "Every single soldier I interviewed mentioned having an encounter with you at some point in the near past."

Bigback swallowed nervously.

"It's cureable, thank the Throne," Tweed continued. "That said, for everyone of those poor bastards who is still alive, it will require major evasive surgery and months of painful physio-chemically therapy. And I'd guess a few months counseling from the sisters of the ordos, too. There is a ship already en-route from sub-sector command and by the look on young Tarret's face, I'd say not a moment too soon."

Bigback looked backwards at the young commissar. He was ashen-faced and trembling.

"Lesson learned, Junior? No more fornicating with abhumans, eh?"

"Aye, sir," he replied quietly, not looking at Tweed.

"Good. Dismissed."

The young, shell-shocked commissar turned and left without a word. Tweed continued as the door was closed, "You know what I find really interesting, is that you're obviously a carrier, yet you obviously show no signs of the illness yourself. Why is that?"

Bigback's eyes were wet with tears, she just looked at her feet, shrugged, and asked in a weak voice, "Are you going to kill me now?"

"Hush now. Don't cry, little Shella," Tweed grinned maliciously at Bigback, "Your life is far from over."

::::

Bigback walked down the ramp of the heavy loader shuttle, shuffling along in her ragged robe and bare feet. Dozens of others walked with her.

"Form ranks and stand at attention you worthless grox-pellets!"

The prisoners shuffled quickly into ranks and snapped to attention. An officer in an ornate dark grey uniform walked before them, a gold baton tucked tightly under his arm.

"Welcome to the glorious Cestus Vale Penal Legion. You'll come to hate it, which is good, because I hate you! You serve with the Emperor's grace and you live and die by my orders."

The officer waved his hand at the junior officers behind him and they came forward, pushing and shoving the newly arrived penal troopers into different companies.

Bigback was herded along to a clutch of grim-faced penal troopers. They were an ugly lot; branded with serial numbers and unit markers, tattooed with gang marking and tribal heritage, scarred from hundreds of brutal intra-regiment scraps and relentless warring on dozens of battlefields.

"Hello boys!" she called out. She'd always liked her men a little on the rough side. They saw her female form and starting elbowing each other and grinning happily.

She sudden remembered the scroll tucked in her robe. She glanced around, seeing the officer who had spoken and called out, "Colonel, sir!"

The officer spun around, glared and stomped over her company. The hard-men shrank away, leaving Bigback on her own. He roared and spittle flow into her face, "Who dares address me?"

Bigback raised her small hand, the scroll held tightly in his tiny fist, and said, "A message from Commissar Tweed, sir."

The officer looked down, as if seeing her for the first time, and then he slapped the palm of his hand with the elaborate gold baton half a dozen times before replying. "Tweed, eh?" the man yelled, and snatched the scroll away from her.

He unrolled it and read the message;  
_Stinky-Stan,__  
I finally got you, you ugly bastard. Astropath me when you figure out what I mean. That's for cheating me at cards at the schola pregemium, you silver tongued-devil. I hope you like mushrooms, Hah! Good hunting, swine!  
Yours forever-in-faith,  
Tweedy-Thumbs_

The colonel turned the scroll over and around, looking to see if there was more message. Seeing none, he nodded to the Ratling, "Any more to this message?" he growled.

"No, sir, that was all."

"He didn't say anything else. Anything at all?"

"Nope."

The colonel nodded slowly, reading the message again. He looked down at the red-haired ratling, "Right, get yourself cleaned up, and report to my office. I have a few things I'd like to discuss with you."

"No problem, sir. You'll have that batten handy, right? It was a long, lonely trip out here."

"What?" He roared.

"Nothing, sir!" She snapped to attention, "I'll report to your quarters, I mean, office with all due haste!"


	3. Homo sapiens gigantus

_**Homo sapiens gigantus**_

~ O ~

A Hormagaunt of Hive Fleet Trinity scuttled quickly through the dark street, its talons held tight to its body. The 'gaunt stopped for a moment, flicking its tongue rapidly around its elongated head. On the air it tasted the chemicals released from burning inorganic materials and cooked organics. It tilted its head and looked left and right. It could taste creatures nearby. A brood of hormagaunts clicked to a stop beside it, forty or more clustered tightly together, heads twisting and tongues flashing.

Light from a nearly fire danced over their white-sand colored carapace, skirted along the ridges of their red spine spikes, and illuminated their large yellow scythe shaped talons.

The lead 'gaunt could taste the food-creatures again. They were pungent, even more so then the creatures it had hunted a few moments ago. Its small, red eyes darted around, hunting for the slightest movement. It couldn't see anything either. These creatures were cunning. The 'gaunt hissed softly in displeasure.

The small tyranid heard a slight noise and snapped its head up. Beady red eyes looked up, piecing the night gloom with ease. Its small brain processed what it saw. It saw a pair of quickly descending boots, each the size of its head.

A boot landed on his torso, the other its neck. The weight behind the boots, and the momentum generated by the long fall from the building, crushed the hormagaunt. Its organs sprayed out in a wave of viscous filth, splashing its nearby brood-kin. A dozen pairs of big boots dropped from the black night, landing amongst the hormagaunts, crushing a dozen or more.

::::

The boots where attached to massive humanoids. Each was ten feet tall, eight feet wide and weighted seven-hundred pounds of rock-hard bone and super dense muscle.

Ogryns.

In the dark, smoke choked street, they roared with anger, raged beyond human comprehension. Barbaric and simple, they stomped and kicked, and fired huge weapons with a fearsome abandon. Their weapons where heavy, blunt ripper guns with huge bayonets attached. The ripper was heavy auto shotgun with a powerful, if short ranged, discharge. Built simply and tough, they were as often used as firearms as heavy object with which to cause a great deal of violent, blunt force trauma.

The Ogryns killed the forty hormagaunts without taking anything worse than a few scratches. Bogar got it the worse by losing an eye to a flailing claw. In return, he was stamped the offending tyranid to paste. Bone'ead Fist roared and kicked him in the backside. Bogar turned and raised his ripper cannon. Fist slapped his ripper aside and punched him in the nose, then roared at him and pointed his arm back towards the Imperial lines.

The squad got moving.

These Ogryns had thick, brown, rhino-like skin which stretched across their wide, blunt faces. Heavy brows draped over dull eyes, and their jutting jaws were topped with sharp canine teeth. Born and bred on the feral world of Maletorr, a world with significantly greater gravity and a punishing environment, they were destined to be monsters. Simple by the measures of the Imperium, Orgyns were often recruited into the Guard because of their great strength, durability, and their child-like belief in the Emperor.

And their directable anger. They were angry, so very angry.

::::

In the Hive Spire high above the stomping Ogryns, the commanders and officers of the Imperial Guard and local Planetary Defense were in thick in debate. Assembled together in the Concilium Magnus, the grand hall at the very peak of the highest spire, though dimly lit the hall was ornate beyond understanding and at complete odds to the death and destruction surrounding the city.

General Tlak, of the Bute 9th Rifles, said, "We can no longer contact with the western cities. They have fallen to the bugs."

There was muttering and low oaths from the assembled men and women.

"That opens up Hive Kut to a two prong assault. Orbital confirmed the advance of a large horde in our direction," he continued.

"What's their status now? Does Orbital have an estimated time of arrival?" Colonel Zanussi asked.

"No," Tlak said, "Orbital assets have taken massive damage and are withdrawing to the edge of the system."

The hall became silent. In the glow of the projector the general said, "Admiral Veck has given us five hours to get as many troopers to the starport as possible. We're leaving this planet. Landers are already shifting troops. Anyone not there, will be left."

An officer at the back of the room coughed softly, "Excuse me, General."

The general turned and frowned, "Yes, Colonel Glass?"

"I do believe orders from Segmentum Command were to defend the planet … _to the last_, they said."

There was some awkward shifting and looking away from the other officers.

"Colonel, I know the orders. However, we have a responsibility to remain a viable fighting force. The war against the Tyranids will not end here. With the Navy pulling out, the tens of the thousands of guardsmen and PDF, not to mention the millions of civilians on this planet are doomed. This planet has lost its fight…"

"What!" roared Governor Veselvic, "How dare you!"

"Shut up!" the general yelled in reply. Spit flow directly into Veselvic's face. "Shut up, you stupid fug-face! If you hadn't been a complete fug-stain, we wouldn't be here right now!"

Glass stepped forward, "Regardless. Orders are orders, isn't that right, Commissar SanCale?"

A grim-faced commissar lurking at the dark fringes of the hall growled in agreement.

General Tlak grunted and said, "_My_ orders are that we retire to the starport. Get your regiments organized to evac the planet. And governor, if you're not there, I wouldn't lose much sleep."

"Sir …" the colonel started to say.

"No, Glass, no," Tlak pointed his finger at the colonel, "Not another word."

"But sir!"

"Dammit Glass! Do you value your commission?"

"Not really … do you think I command Ogryn out of choice?" There was a strange silent after he said that. Few of the officers present truly understood what took to lead the barbaric abhumans. None wanted to find out first hand.

Glass sighed, "I'll do it."

The general growled, "Do _what_?"

"The bug's vanguard has already breach the hive's perimeter, so if you're going to get any serious numbers off planet you'll need a rearguard." He walked up the holo-table and stared for a long moment. "Here, at Spigs Fort. I'll take the Maletorr Auxiliary and hold the fort. It will act as a blocking force from the main bug attack coming from the south. Also, if there is anything we know about the Tyranid is that they will react to the present of such large group in their way. It'll draw forces away from elsewhere in the hive. That should make getting to the starport easier for you."

"That's suicide!" screamed the Governor

"Suicide either way, if you ask me."

"What?"

"Stay here and die … or flee the planet and be shot as cowards," Glass shrugged.

"Shut your mouth about cowardice! We are not running away, we are extracting our resources for future battles," roared General Tlak.

The colonel snorted, "If you say so … SanCale?"

The commissar stepped forward. Half his face was a horrid mass of burn scars, his ruined mouth chewed on the end of unlit cigar. He pulled it out of his mouth, spat on the holo-table, and glared at Tlak.

"I'll be staying, laddie. Don't you worry about it," he said. "We may only be a thin black line of courage, but me and the other commissars, will be with ya, right to the end."

::::

Heavy with muscles, Fist and the Orgyns waddled as they ran. Out of the shadows leapt a dark figure, bat-like. The Ogryns pulled up sharply, rippers at the ready. Fist held up his namesake, a huge fist.

"Fist, there you are!" shouted the bat-like man and he emerged fully for the shadows. He wore the black stormcoat and peaked cap of a commissar. "We've got to reach Western Street, or we'll get trapped here."

"RIGHT YOU HAVE IT, BOSS!" yelled Fist.

The commissar briefly flinched at the excessive volume. Listening to Fist speak took a lot of getting used to. Ever since he showed the slight spark of intelligence and underwent the Biochemical Ogryn Neural Enhancement (BONE), he was incapable of moderating his voice. He only spoke is shouts, yells, and roars.

The commissar waved his hand and the squad stomped forward into the smoke and alien filled night. Commissar Infa thumped alongside the gigantic abhumans, stopping twice to collect wayward units or lost civilians or to stomp and shoot tyranids.

Most Imperials thought of Ogryns as simple, even stupid creatures. Child-like and all but useless, save for their vast strength and infallible ability to follow orders. By the lofty standards of the Imperial, they were, in fact, very simple and naïve in their understandings of technology, culture, and the God-Emperor. However, to anyone who actually served with them, they soon found that all adult Ogryns possessed a fearsome animal cunning.

As a species they could not have survived on harsh planets with a brutal, tribal lifestyle if they hadn't developed any abilities to survive. They could look and listen, hunt and stalk, kill and murder. They could also raise their own children, albeit with significantly higher infant mortality rates, and become adults without any inference from the great cerebral powers of Mankind, _Homo sapiens sapiens imperiallous._

Infa found them amazing and terrifying. They were the zenith of mankind's physical abilities – nearly the size and strength of an Astarte, and with endurance almost without end. They were so fearless and ferocious in battle they were considered little better than Orks.

However, they also represented the shallow end of humanity's mental capacity – they were all but emotionally retarded and mentally they were hardy above that of the primitive hunter-gatherer, and much more violently unrestrained.

Even though 'might makes right' is their basic belief structure, spiritually speaking, they were nearly perfect. They believed the God-Emperor looked over the shoulder, the Mightest them often called Him - He watched their every move, judged their every action. They lived honest lives of brutish, violent toil for fear of shaming themselves in the eyes of the ever watching God-Emperor for Mankind.

Once within sight of Great Western Street Infa voxed their arrival at the lines. He climbed through the main line of resistance, a heavily barricaded street dense with debris and razor wire. The line of twenty ogryns waddled in after him. Once they were all behind the barricades, Infa asked the nearest officer for a status report and he was informed to take his squad of ogryns to the north end of the city. 'Glass's orders,' said the young officer.

Infa followed the streets deep into the outerhives. Eventual he located another squad of orgyns lead by Commissar Ausk. Ausk was tall and ugly, but well respected and liked by the other commissars for her dedication to morale and discipline. She was traveling north as well.

"Ausk!" Infa shouted.

She turned and waved, "Henri, good to see you're still with us."

"The same to you. What's going on? Why are we being ordered away from the line?" he said as they joined up. Their respected squads of abhumans mingled and sized each other up. There was some growling amongst them, tension rose quickly.

One quick look and a loud snap of Ausk's fingers silenced the grumblings.

"Not sure, but SanCale called me personally. Said get my arse to the north, to the old iron works."

"That's what I heard for an officer on my way in."

She shrugged and indicated that they should continue. He nodded and said, "After you."

::::

It took the better part of a day to get all the squads of the Maletorr Auxilia together at the old iron works. Colonel Glass and Commissar SanCale where waited there, hovering around an overturned ore cart, which was now their conference table. As the squad leaders, commissars and officers arrived they were directed to the leader's workshop. There, they were given orders to move out again, to make their way to the old and unused stronghold – Spig's Fort.

A relic of the first days, the stronghold had been held on as a memory, a keep-sake, of the glory days of exploration. A few hundred years earlier when the local mines ran dry, and the city's money dried up, the stronghold had fallen into hard times, becoming derelict and abandoned.

The squads arrived in drips and drabs. The first units set about rebuilding the ruined walls and towers. As more and more units arrived they were put to work clearing the fields around the old fort. Ogryns worked like beasts of burden; slow, ponderous, but without stopping. Nearly a thousand Ogryns eventually gathered at the old fort.

Their combined smell was overwhelming.

Most commanders would have been frustrated by their lack of working speed, but Glass simply watched them as they trudged and toiled for hours without end. No point in rushing them, they were working as fast as their dim minds would allow them.

They were surprised when a sneaking brood of 'gaunts leap out of the rubble surrounding the old fort, but the Ogryn fists and boots put pay to their sneaking ways.

That was the sign Glass had been waiting for. That meant the Nids where nearby. He called a quick conference and dealt out his orders.

"Gentlemen, and Lady," Glass said, nodding to Ausk, "Here is my plan. We hold the outer walls, but leave the main gates open. I want the bugs to try and rush front door, not sneaking through the windows or the attic. We'll have two squads to hold the gateway, Infa and Bay that you two. Everyone else get your Meats pumped up for a fight. 'Cause we'll be having one before we know it."

::::

An hour later, the first wave of Tyranids arrived. It was an insult to the Maletorrians. A small brood of a few hundred white-sand colored hormagaunts and bore-rifle totting termagaunts. The Maletorr Auxilia saw them off with hardly a casualty. They stacked the bodies a hundred meters from the forts gate.

Goga, from Boneh'ead Blak's squad set them alight. He clapped happily as the fire took and the bodies smoked. He blew at the smoke. Blew and blew and blew, until SanCale came out and dragged him back to the fort by his earlobe. When asked what he was doing, Goga answered, 'Blowin' da smoke so the buggies could smell it. Tha' mean more buggies to smash. Smash good!'

As if answering Goga's unorthodox request, the Tyranid Hivemind of Trinity sent a second force, enlarged by a factor of a thousand. When before there was less then one 'nid for each Ogryn, this time they each had a dozen or more. The Maletorrian's were pleased by that prospect.

At the gateway Fist and Brickface held their squads together in a vicious battle that was hand-to-hand for an hour. The Ogryns gave no ground. The squads on the walls over, on the ramparts, in the gatehouse laid down fearsome, if inaccurate, ripper-fire. Not that accuracy mattered much with the vast horde swarming to get into the gateway.

The second attack took its toll on the defenders. Two hundred abhumans lay dead. Sixteen commissars were killed. Including Infa and Bay, who held the gateway with their respective squads until they were killed by flashing claws or digging fleshborers.

SanCale took command of the gateway.

They didn't have to wait long for a third assault. The Hivemind was tired of playing with the humans and sent a horde a million strong.

::::

Fist swung his heavy ripper around, knocking a 'gaunt aside before stamping on his head. Another beast jumped at him and he swung the ripper like a scumball bat, smacking the creature across the head, shattering its skull and knocking it fifty meters through the air. He bayoneted a bio-weapon totting 'gaunt as it attempted to scamper past him.

"DO 'EM BOYS!" he roared, even louder than normal. He unloaded his ripper into the mass of 'gaunts. The huge shotgun rounds dealing horrific damage to the xenos.

SanCale shouted for him, "Fist! Get back in line!"

"RIGHT HAVE YOU BOSS," he said, and then shouted to his squad, "BACK TO DA LINE!" He lumbered back into barricade with 'nids nipping at his heels. He clambered over the debris wall and jumped down beside SanCale. "WHAT'S DA PLAN, BOSS?

SanCale squinted at his volume of his voice. It was even louder than the battle before them. "We've got to hold the barricade," he looked at his chrono, "at least for another hour. Then, then we meet the Emperor."

"NO PROBLEM, BOSS," Fist said, than added a tactical suggestion, "LET ME TO TAKE MY BOYS TO 'EM. WE'LL RUCK 'EM!"

SanCale looked up at the three meter tall death-dealer. His heavy, brutal face was smeared in alien ichors. Fist was smart, at least as Ogryns go. He recognized that the 'nids had clustered around the barricade, but held back their attack, and instead were swarming the nearby walls. A brutal sortie to draw them away from the walls and back to the main gate was just what this fight needed.

"Och, go on lad, not much point in postponing your meetin' with the Emperor," SanCale grinned.

"OY!" Fist yelled at his squad. The volume made SanCale stagger back a step and shake his head. He had heard quieter artillery volleys.

Fist pumped him arm up and down and waved his hand at the 'nids. His Orgyns roared and leapt over the rubble wall and thundered forward in a wave of muscle and fury.

SanCale couldn't help but laugh at their stupid bravery. They were truly fearless.

He laid his boltpistol on the rubble and took aim. A quick moving shadow to his right drew his attention. He glanced over and for a brief second saw two long thin, tongue-like tendrils lance through the air. The wicked hooks on the end speared into SanCale.

He screamed and looked down, blood poured out of his chest, and then he was jerked through the air.

Fist was the first of his squad to leap the wall and when he heard the commissar scream he looked back. He saw the Boss get reeled through the air, and into the waiting claws of a two and half meter, wind-sand colored lictor.

"NO!" he roared and thundered after the commissar.

When SanCale was fully reeled in on the lictor's flesh hook, the giant 'nid took a moment to tear him in half. It cast his top half towards the gate and his lower half into the waiting horde behind it.

Hearing a thunderous roar the lictor looked up and saw a bull-rushing Orgryn. The beast took a quick, small step forward; leading with its enormous back mounted blade-arms. Each chitinous blade impaled the Ogryn, one spear-limb through each of Fist's lungs.

The big abhuman grunted, "_OUUUUUU_!" as they pierced his torso. Two meters of blood-red bone blade stuck out of his back.

The lictor looked closely at its squiring, captive prey.

Fist hurt. A lot. He hardly ever felt pain before today, and he certainly had never felt pain like he did now. He tried to take a breath, but realized he couldn't. So he didn't.

He looked up from under his heavy brow, straight into the black orb-eyes of the lictor. Not liking the way the Xeno looked at him, Fist grabbed the dangling tentacles of its face and pulled hard. They tore off and filthy fluid slurped out.

The lictor shrilled and shook its head violently. But Fist wasn't finished. He swung his huge fists out to his sides and using the grotesquely powerful muscles across his chest and shoulders, he slammed his fists together on the lictor's head. It's large skull deformed and crumpled and exploded in a shower of blood, fluid and bone.

The lictor collapsed and with it Fist tumbled to the ground. The pain worsened as the creature went through its death-throes, the spear-limbs twitching violently, and grated and shredded his torso.

Once the creature had stopped moving Fist tired to situp, but found himself pinned by the lictor's spear-limbs. He took a moment to break them by punching them repeatedly.

He stood up uneasily and staggered to a knee. He felt sometime bite his arm and did bother looking as he raised his arm up and smashed whatever it was to pulp. Realizing his movement was going to be impaired by the xeno limbs sticking out of him, he took hold of the blade-limbs still embedded in his chest and pulled them out slowly.

Fist let of a truly loud yell.

The big, blood covered orgyn thundered his way back to the barricade, whipping the blade-limbs around him, smashing and slicing tyranids in equal measure. When he reached the barricade he climbed over it painfully. He grunted unhappily when he realized it was abandoned and bugs where overrunning the fort.

A wave of clawing, biting 'nids rushed over the barricade behind him. Not having that, Fist screamed and lashed out in a hurricane of rage and violence.

He would not leave the barricade. That's what the Boss wanted, so that's what he'd do.

::::

Colonel Glass threw himself down, barely escaping the snapped talons of a gargoyle. He rolled onto his back and fired his laspistol at the beast. He hit it in the face and neck. The creature flapped and crashed to the ground. He stood up, weapon ready. He shouted, "Rally! Rally! Rally! Ra …"

He stopped and stumbled to the ground, holding a gloved hand to his neck. Burning pain raced over his neck and skull. He could smell cooking flesh.

He slowly laid down on his side and stared at the brutal battle around him. Laying there he saw a blood and filth covered Bone'ead Fist wield SanCale's boltpistol, blasting away and holding the gateway through sheer bloody-minded violence. Not many 'nids got past him.

Glass smiled until the acid melted into his brain and killed him.

::::

Colonel Glass had done as he promised and diverted the 'nids attention to him. Because of him and his Ogryns, tens of thousands soldiers and civilians managed to flee the planet.

Not that it was much consolation to Glass, or Fist, or SanCale, or any of the commissars or Ogryns of the Maletorr Auxilia. Their bodies were eating by swarming Ripper hordes, their very bio-mass fueling the very forces they had so valiantly fought.

~ fin ~


End file.
